LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITE© STATES OF AMERICA. 



A PATCH OF PANSIES 



BY 

/ 
J. EDMUND V. COOKE 



'/2 of n 0/v,"- 



^ ..„***: 






G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW. YORK LONDON 

27 West Twenty-third Street 24 Bedford Street, Strand 

Ube Iftnfcfcerbocfcer press 
1894 



0^ T3 



Copyright, 1894 

BY 

J. EDMUND V. COOKE 

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 
By G. P. Putnam's Sons 



Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by 

"Cbe Ikntcfcerbocfter press, IRew JJJorlt 
G. P. Putnam's Sons 



AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



It is with sincere pleasure that I acknowledge my obligations to 
those editors and publishers who have so readily and cheerfully 
granted me permission to reprint my verses, which have appeared in 
their publications ; and the oft-accompanying expressions of good- 
will and kind wishes for this little volume are even more grateful. 
My explicit thanks are due to Forrest Morgan and the Travelers 
Insurance Co., Chas. A. Dana and The Sun Publishing Co., the 
editor of St. Nicholas and The Century Co., Keppler and Schwarz- 
mann, publishers of Puck, the editor of Truth and the Truth 
Company, the editor and publishers of The Club, Dr. T. L. Flood 
and The Chautauquan, the editor of Life and Life Publishing Co., 
C. B. De La Vergne, Jr., and Smith, Gray & Co., the D. Lothrop 
Co., The Detroit Free Press, Susan Hayes Ward and The In- 
dependent, Chas. W. Handy, Overland Monthly Publishing Co., 
Arthur B. Tournure and Vogue and Cleveland Town Topics. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Author's Note iii 

The Riddle of the Clock 3 

Ambition 5 

On the Shore . . 6 

The Tragic Muse j 

Gayety 8 

New Year's Eve .9 

Grief 10 

Unweeping or Unwept ri 

The Poet's Song I2 

A Triplet of Quatrains I3 

Love's Imagery T y 



Rondeau — A Mistletoe Spray 



19 



Perfume 20 

Love to Anger 21 

Love Song — Unrest 22 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Humility to Pride 

The Song You Sang for 

" The Parting Guest " 

Retrospection 

I Would . 

Philopena 

Conceit . 

To a Black Eyk 

Nature . 

A Compound Fracture 

The Teacher Did . 

Rondeau — En Passant 

Unresponsive . 

The Naked Truth 

" The Ruling Passion " 

An After Thought 

Sub Rosa. 

Etymology 

A " Dashing Maiden" 

My Own Sweet Heart 

The Saddest Thing 

Requiescat in Pace 



Me 



PAGE 
23 
24 
25 
26 
28 
29 

33 
34 

35 
36 
37 
33 

39 
40 

4i 
42 

43 
44 
45 
47 

48 

49 



CONTENTS. vil 

PAGE 

"Found Wanting" ........ 50 

The Tender-Hearted Man 53 

Over the Get-there Road 57 

The Ascetic — Up to Date 60 

The Other One was Booth 63 

A Courtin' Call 66 

The Old Man Knows 6S 

Laugh a Little Bit 70 

Leopold 73 

The New St. Nicholas . 76 

A Watchword 81 

Consolation 84 

"On the Judgmunt Day " 85 

" Aufwiederseh'n " 8q 



PROEM. 

Why does he show his pansies planted there? 
There are so many, many flowers more rare, 
So many wondrous gardens past compare, 
What can he hope for, save a passing stare? 

Well, when a man has planted them with care, 
Has dug and tended, watered all he dare, 

Watched every glimpse of green which tinged the bare, 
Black earth, known every leaflet there, 
Blest every bud with an especial prayer, 
Noted each color warm the ambient air, 
Seen every blossom's cheek take on its fair, 
Soft velvet, — surely we can spare 
Some small excuse for him, if he declare 
His humble blossoms worthy of a share 
Of our regarding. 

Then, too, be aware 
The toiler is repaid if he may bear 
One touch of brightness to a world of care, 
One blossom for a village maiden's hair, 
One bit of bloom to glow — and wither — where 
A dead child lies, whose peaceful features ivear 
A smile of wonder at its friends' despair. 



Oft when he strove for deeper, rarer color, 
The casual comment only called it duller. 



To FORREST MORGAN, of Hartford, Conn., 

EDITOR, LITTERATEUR, CRITIC, FRIEND, TO WHOSE ABLE WORDS 

AND KIND ACTS I HAVE SO OFTEN BEEN INDEBTED, 

I INSCRIBE THESE MOST THOUGHTFUL 

OF MY VERSES, 



THE RIDDLE OF THE CLOCK. 

A LONELY poet all devoid of wings 
**■ (Which men say Genius has) to fly, 
Was training him some thoughts (those stubborn things) 
To aid him to his goal. The hours flew by, 
And as they passed, his patient time-piece broke 
Upon his thought. Thereon the poet spoke : 

" Curses on thee, slave of Time ! 
With thy dull, insistent chime ; 
With thy hands which point the way 
Where the night gropes toward the day ; 
With thy calm, unrestful face 
Ever staring into space : 
How thy constancy doth mock 
All my restless strife, O clock ! 

" Ha ! Thou art a very Sphinx 
Staring, placid, and methinks 
That thy riddle, still unread, 
Is that which thou just hast said. 
3 



A PA TCH OF PANSIES. 

" Whose those dozen monotones ! 
Yesternight's last dying moans ? 
Or the Pallas-shouts, thus freeing, 
As the new day leaps to being ? 
Symbols of the death and birth, 
Both in one, of things of Earth ? 
Both in one ? Then in that blending 
Can beginning be, or ending ? 

" Or by that repeated strain 
Of monotonous refrain, 
Dost thou aim to tell us how 
Time is never aught but Now ? 
That we are as evanescent 
As that ever-passing Present ? 

" 'T is thy riddle, not devolving 
On a humble bard for solving. 
'T is the riddle of the ages 
Still disputed by the sages. 
Where, O, where the CEdipus 
Who will solve it now for us ? " 

He ceased, and still the old clock's face 
With stolid stare looked into space, 
And still it guided on its way 
The blind Night groping towards the day. 



AMBITION. 

A MBITION, comrade-mine, I lag, I tire ; 
■**■ The heights which you would aid me to, arise 

So far away, nor stop for clouds or skies. 
The wondrous peak, to which I 've dared aspire, 
I 've only known by echoes from a lyre 

Touched by a Byron ; or when my dim eyes 
Through Shakespeare's glass have seen, and, made 
more wise, 
Have feared to look upon my soul's desire. 

And yet I do not murmur at the steeps ; 

But hard is this unvaried, low extent 
Whose weary length before Parnassus creeps. 

Oh, joyfully I 'd try the rough ascent : 
Though staffless, worn, and tried by fearful leaps, 

I 'd toil toward the stars, and be content. 



ON THE SHORE. 

'"THE lustful Storm-King seized the sobbing Sea, 
* While pander Darkness lent his dreaded pall 

And bugler Wind blew out a battle-call. 
The Thunder laughed in gruff and dismal glee ; 
The Sky cloud-veiled her eyes, fain not to see, 

Nor plea nor protest rose among them all ; 

When lo ! a circled light pierced through the thrall, 
Touching the Sea's breast with its purity. 

I lightly mused : — " A Cyclops' lidless eye ? 

Or jewel discarded by the mourning sky?" 

Then, " Nay, is 't not the Sea's soul, calm and clear 

— Though all her form racked by the Storm-fiend lie, — 
And smiling at the powers of Force and Fear ? " 
O love ! so were my soul if thou wert near. 



THE TRAGIC MUSE. 

Al 7HEN first he wooed Melpomene, he cried, 
* * " Muse, to my grief lend thou thy sounding phrase 

And men shall yield me amaranthine bays ? " 
" Doth Grief chase gaudy bubbles ? " she replied. 
Abashed he clutched the grave reproof. "I '11 hide 
My sorrow through the weary coming days, 
Nor seek to sob it sweetly in my lays — " 
" Does Sorrow sorrow less when undescried ?" 

He stooped his head. At length he saw aright, 

Then said, " Teach me, O wisest Muse, to show 
The glow of humanizing force in woe, 
To star the darkness of the sombre night, 
And show how paths of pain lead up to light ! " 

And then he heard an " Amen " clear and low. 



GAYETY. 

1/ NOW'ST thou alluring Gayety and these 

*^ Who tread within her toilsome, tiresome mill, 

Doing the penance of her frivolous will ? 
Not Tantalus nor Sisyphus seeks ease 
More vainly than this band of devotees, 

Who climb a constantly receding hill, 

Who drink a draught which cloys, but does not fill, 
Who surfeit self, but may not self appease. 

A glance at Gayety seems all delight, 

For every Circe is at first most kind, 

But envy not the ones who have enshrined 
The siren as a goddess. Folly's rite 
Instills a lightness not of heart, but mind, 

And constant sweets make ill the appetite. 



NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

THE prophet Youth sings triumphs to be won ; 
■*• Age is content because he can remember ; 
The gallant, good Old Year's great deeds are done ; 
He leans upon his Minister, December. 

His body-guard of days has fought the fight ; 

Grim Death completes the triumph of Disaster ; 
Earth weeps her lord and sympathizing Night 

Drapes black about her ; so farewell, old Master. 

But now, the moon unveils her clouded face ; 

Earth feels her kiss in pure maternal pleasure ; 
And January with a rough, rude grace, 

Offers the infant Year a host of treasure. 

Good morning, bright New Year, and here 's a toast 
To all the good you find us worth the giving ; 

Good night, Old Year; we mourn your death the most 
By giving royal welcome to the living. 



GRIEF. 

/"^ RIEF is not evil, though its cause 
^-* Seems ill to our believing, 
For who, though he could form the laws 
Which rule us all, but what would pause 
Before he banished grieving ? 

Couldst thou be saved from thy distress, 

Be saved from earnest sorrow, 

Be sure thy nature then were less 

And might not hold the happiness 

Reserved for some to-morrow. 

The cup which makes thy lips afraid 

May prove a kind nepenthe ; 
The gloom may be refreshing shade 
To rest thee, like a wooded glade, 
When summer suns have spent thee. 

Man did not rise above the beast 
Till he could grieve in season, 
Nor shall his woe and pain have ceased, 
Till north nor south nor west nor east 
Shall give grief cause or reason. 



10 



UNWEEPING OR UNWEPT. 

" I J NWEPT, unhonored, and unsung " 

^ Were not the worst of Fortune's bringing ; 
Dread, rather, thine own eyes and tongue 

Unweeping and unsinging. 
Unweeping for thy brother, bound 

But struggling in the sombre Night, 
Unsinging from thy vantage-ground 

The happy tidings of the Light. 

Weep and be sure thou shalt be wept. 

Sing gladly, and the joy-sounds ringing 
May wake some soul, which long hath slept, 

To echo back thy singing. 
Let fall thy tears ! Let rise thy strain ! 

So canst thou never be among 
Those heritors of man's disdain, 

Th' " unwept, unhonored, and unsung." 



THE POET'S SONG. 

HPHE poet's tuneful voice brought forth a song, 
*■ A song whose words were solace, and whose breath, 
Might resurrect dead hope. The troubled throng 
Who tread life's shortening highway down to death, 
Heard with their hearts, and in their varied ways 
They viewed life under brighter, lighter rays ; 
Whereat they cried aloud the singer's praise. 

They did not know he made his perfect song 
To cheer himself, and not the world about, 
Nor that he pitched it true and clear and strong 
To drown the voices of unfaith and doubt. 
Oh, it is well that none may singly own 
A touch of beauty, thought, nor tint, nor tone : 
Though born of him, it is not his alone. 



A TRIPLET OF QUATRAINS. 



POETRY. 



nnO deftly do what many dimly think ; 
*■ To fund a feeling for the world to borrow 
To turn a tear to printer's ink ; 

To make a sonnet of a sorrow. 



EGO-THEISM. 



This trouble seems to be 

Chief in theology : 

Each thinks the hymn should be,— 
Nearer, my God, to Thee. 



THE MYSTERY OF EVIL. 



The rake upon a wanton wastes the wiles 
Which dazzle innocence. 

The nettle guards itself ; the lily smiles 
Unheedful of defence. 



13 



What, though the flowers be humble ; should he care, 
If lovely -woman deem them fit to wear ? 



TO THAT WOMAN OF WOMEN, 

MY MOTHER, 

I DEDICATE THESE LOVE- VERSES, 

AND THROUGH HER I GREET MY MANY OTHER WOMEN-FRIENDS, 

FAR AND NEAR, OLD AND YOUNG. 



15 



LOVE'S IMAGERY. 



[ OVE is a bubbling, sparkling brook, 
*— ' Springing up from any nook, 
Sunning itself as it lolls along, 
Singing a snatch of happy song, 
Thinking the world but a gentle hill 
To speed the course of a careless rill. 



ii. 



Love is a river, broadening, deepening, 
With eddying spots and borders steepening ; 
And who can stay or guide its course 
As on it rolls with gathering force ? 
And who can say to where 't is tending, 
Whether to gliding, peaceful ending, 
Or whither the rapids beat the rocks 
In constant, endless, sudden shocks, 
Till wearied and weak by hopeless fight, 
They madly leap Niagara's height ? 
17 



1 8 A PATCH OF PANSIES. 

III. 

Love is an ocean, wide as life, 
But rippled and waved by smallest strife. 
Every cloud that appears in air 
Shadows the surface here or there. 
Shifting winds and storms of doubt 
Trouble and surge and sweep about, 
And the tide of passion's awful force 
Comes flooding along its heedless course. 
But often the sky is blue, and oft 
The sun is warm and the breeze is soft, 
And whatever the strife that stirs its breast, 
Deep, deep down is a perfect rest. 



RONDEAU— A MISTLETOE SPRAY. 

A MISTLETOE spray — so parched, so dry, 
**■ But the rarest blossom fails to vie, 
As I hold it these brief feet in air, 
And see ! — again she is standing there, 
As pure and bright as the summer sky. 
Nay, summer similes scarce apply. 
'T is a long-sped Christmas calls this sigh, 
And only the fair yule-time may wear 
A mistletoe spray. 

Sweet, on that day-of-the-days, when I 

Dreamed the boy-god sped his shafts awry, 
This it was told me to do and dare ; 
You under this in your sun-spun hair ; 
This — so I treasure it till I die — 
A mistletoe spray ! 



19 



PERFUME. 

A TINY, wandering sylphid brushed my lips, 

^*- As sped she from a field flower to the sky. 
In that brief instant, as she passed me by, 

A flutter of the diaphanic tips 

Of ether wings waved dainty, grateful sips 
Of half-forgot perfume to me, and I 
Was fain to close my lids and softly sigh, 

And lo ! to-day for me was in eclipse. 

The ghosts of glimmering stars of that last night 
A witchery of voice, of glance, of dress, 
An echo of a softly spoken " Yes," 
Lived once again. Then the disturbing light 
Of this unblest to-day put forth its blight, 
And all the fragrance turned to bitterness ! 



LOVE TO ANGER. 

I~"\EAR one, 't is less of a task, I surmise, 
f-* For brows to be placid, than frowningly knit ; 
And surely no voice should discordantly rise 
When music were less of an effort for it. 



We are so heedless, love, when we are sure. 

Once, what Cupid's service came ever amiss ? 
Then Anger dissembled and Love would endure, 

And harshest reproach was a vehement kiss. 

Love, let those days come again and remain, 
For kisses can punish as well as reward ; 

You could not give any more chastening pain 
Than caresses of anger, still showing regard. 



LOVE SONG— UNREST. 

[ OVE did not come with a rushing winj 
*-* To storm and seize my breast, 
But he came as a nameless little thing 
With trifles to do and say and sing ; 

Pleasant were they, yet brought unrest, 

Pleasant, yet brought unrest. 

Anon, his voice took serious ring 
And then command expressed, 
And lo ! I found that I could not bring 
My heart from its mad, mad worshipping 
At the shrine of a wild unrest, 
The shrine of a wild unrest. 

I weep with joy and with sorrow sing ; 

O, am I curst or blest ? 
Troubled am I if to me love cling, 
But lost am I if away love wing, 

So kiss me, Love, as I kiss Unrest ; 

Kiss me ! I kiss Unrest ! 



HUMILITY TO PRIDE. 

OUR arms close comrades ? In your stately face 
My gayness mirrored ? Your proud voice and 
mine 
In pleased companionship ? It is a grace 
Diogenes himself would scarce decline. 

I had not known this sweet and strange surprise, 
Not known delight's soft fragrance such as this, 

Had I the joy to see love light your eyes, 

To clasp you close and feel your luscious kiss. 

For dainty vines embrace the meanest tree ; 

And little Cupid, when he draws his bow, 
Is blinder than his slaves, or if he see, 

He cares not if his aim be high or low. 

The ardent sun of love shines not for me, 

But mine the clear, ideal stars to view ; 
And I am proudly pleased that Fate's decree 

Grants me these passionless bright smiles from you. 



23 



THE SONG YOU SANG FOR ME. 

/^\H, SWEETER, more sweet than the cultured tone 

^-s Of an opera singer's soaring notes, 

Or the birds' glad glee, or the waves' sad moan, 

Or the tuneful tinkle of art-made throats 
Was the song you sang for me alone and all the world 

was June, 
Was the song you sang — 't was all our own — and my 

heart beat rhythmic tune. 

The saddening charm of a loved refrain 

Is treasured in memory's wide-spaced vaults ; 
Forever and aye does the charm remain, 

Though the strain surrenders to Time's assaults, 
And memory only recalls for me some wandering, strag- 
gling part ; 
Like a Cupid's sob or a Psyche's sigh it echoes through 
my heart. 

Your lips gave each number a soft caress 
And bade it forever a fond good-bye ; 
'T would be wondrous then if I prized them less 

And did not dream with a wishful sigh. 
O singer, the poet's words were naught and the song 

without a key, 
Till into those words you breathed your thought and 
gave them a life for me. j 

24 



"THE PARTING GUEST." 

" ]U\ AIDEN, from beyond the Rhine, 
' * * Liebchen, with the lips of wine, 
Were these lips to visit thine, 
What would those lips say to mine ? " 
Thus I spoke unto my dear, 
Who knows my heart and has no fear, 
" Liebchen, with the lips of wine, 
What would those lips say to mine ? " 

Said that maiden in reply, 

— She who loves as well as I — 

" Gentle sir, thy speech is plain, 

But should these lips entertain 

Thy bold lips, mine own were fain 

Just to say ' Aufwiederseh'n,' 

To repeat the old refrain 

' We '11 meet again ; Aufwiederseh'n ! ' " 

So, whene'er those lips meet mine 
And I quaff their nectared wine, 
When they part, they pout again 
And that means "Aufwiederseh'n ; " 
And we swear by that caress, 
We shall never love the less, 
For our hearts shall still remain 
True to that "Aufwiederseh'n." 
25 



RETROSPECTION. 

"T" 1 WERE better had we never met, 
*■ And yet, 

Our meeting I can not regret. 
Because the day has passed and night set in, 
Why should one wish the day had never been ? 

Why did we only say " Good-bye ? " 

A sigh, 
A word, had given doubt the lie. 
One ardent smile had been a golden ray 
To melt the coolness, which between us lay. 



The radiant brightness of a glance, 
Perchance, 
Had lightened shaded circumstance. 
A single glimmering, regretful tear 
Had washed away my dismal, doubting fear. 
26 



RETROSPECTION. 27 

No token came. We said " Farewell." 

It fell 
Like low-rung, sad-tongued, solemn knell ; 
And like a spirit's sigh it haunted me, 
And 't was a ghost of woe, which was to be. 

truant thoughts ! why roam so far 

To mar 
The beauties of the things that are ? 
'T is folly thus, to look, with saddened sigh, 
For vanished love-light when the day is by. 



I WOULD. 

I WOULD write of you, love, in an ode or a sonnet. 
* For the theme were a garb to the muse who might 
don it 

(Though flounced as an epic, or cut as a ballad) 
To heighten what charm she possesses, 
And lighten the faults she confesses 

And brighten her visage, no matter how pallid. 

If my pen were that shaft which the boy-god let sink 
In my heart and the fluid it touched were the ink, 

I 'd praise you in rubrics commanding inspection ; 
But, dear, every thought is so true 
In loving allegiance to you, 

It leaves me to flee in your pleasing direction. 

Yea, the Laura of Petrarch might envy the lyric 
And Beatrice covet the poem-panegyric ; 

And Fame would, perforce, own you Queen of the 
Graces. 
'T were done, were it not for the crimes 
Of metre and rhythm and rhymes ; 

They shirk, while I work, and they won't keep their 
places. 



28 



PHILOPENA. 

DOGUISH, chic, petite Helena 

*^ Ate with me a philopena. 

" Now," she cried, " 't is give and take ; 

You must keep your wits awake ; 

Not an instant be remiss, 

Though I proffer you a kiss." 

Ere her voice had ceased expressing, 

My lips to her lips were pressing. 



Triumph conquered indignation, 
And with gleeful exclamation, 
" Philopena ! " clamored she, 
" For you took a kiss from me." 
" Nay, my wise one, nay, not so ; 
I did but a kiss bestow. 
You accepted it, Helena, 
And from me, hence — philopena ! " 

" Ah ! " she cried, " if it 's contested, 
I 'm becoming interested. 
29 



30 A PA TCH OF PANSIES. 

We '11 begin anew to try 
Who shall conquer, you or I. 
I '11 be ever on my guard ; 
Every glance from you I '11 ward ; 
If a muscle to you cater, 
Atrophy may seize the traitor." 

Then I pleaded : " Lovely maiden, 
Take me and my heart o'erladen 
With the love it brings to you." 
White lids veil her eyes of blue, 
And her warm heart tints her cheeks, 
Till at length she slowly speaks: 
" Muscles of the heart, you know, 
Are involuntary, so 
You have won, for they will take you. 
What gift, victor, shall I make you ? " 

" Gift ! Oh, I am paid, Helena ; 
Be yourself the philopena. 
Had I lost you, ghoulish pain, 
Wed with sorrow — wretched twain ! — 
Would have seized my broken heart 
And devoured it, part and part, 
As we, O, my sweet Helena, 
Ate that blissful philopena." 



A parti-colored bunch of brighter hue 
May zeiin the grace of merry men like you. 



TO BRADLEY H. PHILLIPS, OF BUFFALO, N. Y. 

~P IS not alone I love you well, dear Bradley, 
•*• Induces me to pen these lines to you, 
For these same lines must tell (although so badly) 
A hundred friends I love them as I do. 
There 's Newton, Robert, Harry — very gladly 
I 'd put the hundred here, (if this were guerdon), 
But faith ! the names would crowd each other sadlv 
So let your senior friendship bear the burden. 



31 



CONCEIT. 

^"ONCEIT, the world may hear me ! I confess 
^-^ That once I loved thee. This much do I own 

Nor say it in a light nor covert tone, 
As men oft own a folly. The distress 
Of failure thou couldst soothe, or doubly bless 
A slender triumph. Thou, and thou alone, 
Hadst faith in me, when all the world had flown. 
Good sooth ! but mortals oft are loved for less. 

But constant to me as I thought thee, thou 
Hast raised a frenzy that I may not quell, 

For lo ! thy kiss is on another's brow, 
(Deny it not, Conceit, for I can tell) 
And though, when mine, I loved thee passing well, 

Since thou art his, contempt doth gorge me now. 



33 



TO A BLACK EYE. 

/"CIMMERIAN optic ! how thou hast possessed 

^- - ' My little world's attent. When thou wert fair 
And like thy fellow, void of vicious air, 

None with thy character seemed much impressed. 

Now, in thy purple and fine linen dressed 

E'en modest maidens, passing, at thee stare, 
Although they never met thee otherwhere. 

In former days, unstained, wert thou so blest ? 

Ah, Virtue's even course runs on for aye, 

And no one marks it. Good is reckoned nil. 

So runs the world. Said any yesterday 

" Thy dexter optic ! lo, how free from ill ! " 

Yet now, meseems, the very asses bray 

And o'er thy blackened woe hee-haw their fill. 



34 



NATURE. 

[ STOOD within the city park, and sad 
• Was I to see that sordid man had left 

So little love for Nature ; was so reft 
Of his innate simplicity by mad 
And selfish struggles with the world to add 

Gold unto gold. " He keeps his marts of theft, 
Counting that robber greatest, who most deft, 
Nor knows he 's thralled, while freedom here is had. 

How strange are human preference and choice 
Which revel in the town's tumultuous din, 

Nor seek this place where mankind may rejoice 

In peace, as erst they did ere towns had been ! " 

As thus I mused, there came a sudden voice, 
Kape aff that grass, now, or I '11 run yez in." 



35 



A COMPOUND FRACTURE. 

RONDEL. 

OINCE Amaryllis Smith no more is Smith, 
^ And wed and fled is sweet Nesera Jones, 

I loudly cry that Cupid is a myth, 
But secretly I weep his chubby bones 
And covertly I make these many moans, 

For of the world I seem not part nor lith 

Since Amaryllis Smith no more is Smith, 
And wed and fled is sweet Nesera Jones. 
The pumpkin-pie has lost a certain pith ; 

The tender turkey sings in saddened tones ; 
The buckwheat batter blooms and bears ; but 
with 

That dearth of flavor all existence owns, 
Since Amaryllis Smith no more is Smith, 

And wed and fled is sweet Neaera Jones. 



36 



THE TEACHER DID. 

A RONDEAU OF A WESTERN SCHOOL. 

" TTOLD up your hands," the teacher cried, 

* ■* And would have added this beside, 
" You who have been to school at all," 
For young and old and large and small 
Had gathered there from near and wide. 

It was not easy to divide 
The motley throng, so to decide, 
He raised his voice in sudden call, 
" Hold up your hands ! " 

Some children screamed, while others tried 
Beneath the furniture to hide ; 
But one game infant, near the wall, 
Pulled forth a " gun " and yelled " By gol ! 
I haint no tender-footed snide ; 
Hold up your hands ! " 



37 



RONDEAU— EN PASSANT. 

T KNOW she '11 look. I know it, though 
* One well might think she does not know 
Whose eyes are on her comeliness 
As on she comes, but I can guess 
What gives her face that sudden glow. 

She 's by. Now will she turn ? — Yes — no — 
Aha ! I smile in glee, for lo ! 
Her longing she can not repress 
I know she '11 look. 

Think not that I 'm a flirt or beau, 
Or ogling, cheap Lothario, 
Or she — she 's modest to excess ; 
But I am poor and had to dress 
My last year's bonnet over, so 
I knew she 'd look. 



38 



UNRESPONSIVE. 

QHE waved her graceful hand to me 
^ And glanced and nodded as I passed. 
I 'm of a poor and low degree ; 

She with the proudest set is classed. 

And yet she waved her hand to me ; 

Fair hand ! which scores have vainly sought, 
And frowned, yes, flushed perchance, to see 

That I passed on and heeded not. 

For that hand some would do or die, 

But I am not as others are ; 
She waved her hand. No heed took I, 

But guided on my cable-car. 



39 



THE NAKED TRUTH. 



DOET, thou 'rt like unto a gas-man, for the fleeter 

*■ Thy product runs through easy-moving meter, 

The more thou grinnest gayly, till, alas ! 

Thou findest other simile to gas, 

And learnedst iambs and dactyls are but meet 

To fetch a poor piaster for a thousand feet. 



40 



"THE RULING PASSION." 

(~** O to, ye men who seek an ordinary woman's " Yes," 
^-* And pity me, ye gentle gods ! I loved an editress. 
With fervor I implored her to accept my heart and hand ; 
Her answer came to me by mail, and thus that answer 
scanned : 

" Not available at present. No lack of merit 
necessarily implied. Similar articles already on 
hand. Often forced to reject what others may 
use." 

I kissed the hand that smote me (or rather, kissed the 

mitten,) 
But demanded back the many fervid letters I had 

written ; 
And gently hinted I might be a more deserving man 
To know wherein I failed with her, and thus her answer 

ran : 

" Cannot undertake to give personal criticisms. 
Stamps must be enclosed to insure return of MSS." 



41 



AN AFTERTHOUGHT. 

I. THE DEED. 

" C WEETS to the sweet," I pen 
**-* Upon this candy-box 

And send it to the fairest, then, 
Who breathes and walks. 



II. REPENTANCE. 

" Sweets to the sweet," I penned. 

My fond heart almost stops. 
O, fool ! to write her thus and send 

Those lemon drops. 



42 



SUB ROSA. 

VOU would n't think a man like me 
* Would let such foolish passion gather, 
But — well, I loved Tom's wife and she, 
I thought she seemed to like it rather. 

I almost feel her kisses still ; 

That is — O, well, I had to let her. 
You see, she really cared until 

One luckless day, and then — Tom met her. 



43 



ETYMOLOGY. 

\ 17 HEN Hebrew bears on Hebrew children used to 
' " sup, 
The greeting to a prophet was 

" Go up ! " 

And had he lived in Shakespeare's time, I hold it true 
The salutation would have been 

" Go to ! " 

But now these ancient forms are so improved upon, 
Elias would be angered with 

" Go on ! " 



44 



A "DASHING" MAIDEN. 

J'Ma maid of happy summers, not too many, not too 
* few, 

I always do the things which people say one ought to do ; 
I move in best society, observing all its law, 
It really puzzles me to see wherein I have a flaw ; 
But someway, somehow, somewhere, Fortune's favor 
seems to miss me, 

For though I 'm not unsightly, 

Men all treat me so politely, 
And never one is rude enough to 

I 'm amicable to foibles, do not deprecate cigars, 

Vote a chaperon a nuisance for a walk beneath the 

stars ; 
I can talk with wit or wisdom, not a subject do I shirk, 
From the much-enduring weather, up to Browning and 

his work. 
I am maidenly and modest, but, I hope not too straight- 
laced, 
And I own I never thought 
Men were such a prudent lot 

That the coat-sleeve never wrapped around 

45 



4.6 A PA TCH OF PANSIES. 

Mama tells me I 'm a belle, and brother says I 'm " not 

so bad," 
And Papa always pays the bills, no matter what the fad ; 
I 'm danced and driven, flirted with, no doubt I 'm very 

gay, 

But everything is done in such a proper sort of way, 
That, though I 'm very happy and would covet nothing 
rash, 

Still I hope it isn't harmful 

Just to want to be an — 
And to feel the tittillation of a bold 



MY OWN SWEET HEART. 

r\EAR heart ! aye, dearest of the earth 
*—* Long, long ago I learned thy worth, 
And prized it ere my lips could frame 
Thy praise — and still I love the same. 

None other sends my tingling blood 
Its happy course, with joyous flood. 
None other yields such sympathy 
And pains with all that troubles me. 

In days of misery gone by, 
By other hearts betrayed was I ; 
But thou, dear one, will constant be 
Till life hath ceased in thee and me. 

Yea, I can swear thou 'rt " all my own," 
And " ever constant to this breast ; " 

Forsooth, thou beat'st " for me alone " 
Some inches underneath my vest ! 



47 



THE SADDEST THING. 

O ADDER than misery Nero heard, 

^ Sadder than plaint of an orphaned bird, 

Sadder than Day when the Sun's fair face 

Disdains her, sadder than Sorrow's trace 

On the lips of Love, sadder than Sin, 

Sadder than Memory's " might have been," 

Sadder than dark of Error's night, 

Sadder than wrong defeating right, 

Sadder than Dian's dreamy light, 

Sadder than fire and storm and blight, 

Sadder than birth to a world of care, 

Sadder than death to — oh ! who knows where ? 

Sadder than else which the world contains 

Is the joke a man makes — and then explains ! 



48 



REQUIESCAT IN PACE. 

'"THE man who fears to go his way alone, 
*■ But follows where the greater number tread, 
Should hasten to his rest beneath a stone ; 
The great majority of men are dead. 



49 



"FOUND WANTING." 

JEANNE D'ARC lacked an education ; 
^ Pompadour lacked depth of mind ; 
Maintenon lacked toleration ; 

Esther might have been more kind. 

Hebrew Sarah lacked humaneness ; 

Good Octavia wanted wit ; 
Greek Xantippe lacked urbaneness ; 

Eliot was n't chic a bit. 

Cleopatra lacked humility ; 

Ruth was minus worldly wealth ; 
Bess of England lacked civility ; 

Saint Theresa lacked in health. 

Aspasia lacked in social station ; 

Paula lacked in style and fashion ; 
De Stael lacked domestication ; 

Phryne didn't lack in passion ; — 

Polly 's perfect, but, you see 
Lacks in toto love for me. 



50 



Some hardy, homely buds find pretty mention, 
While perfect blossoms die without attention. 



To MORRIS R. HUGHES, of Cleveland, Ohio, 

A MODEL MAN OF BUSINESS, A WISE COUNSELLOR, AND AN EVER 
GENIAL FRIEND, AND TO MY OTHER FORMER OFFICE- 
ASSOCIATES, ALMOST BROTHERS, I CORDIALLY 
DEDICATE THE VERSES FOLLOWING. 



51 



THE TENDER-HEARTED MAN. 

A PLAIN, rough room ; a plain, smooth box ; aye, both 
**■ as plain 

As he, the dead, who lay as all have lain, 
Or will lie, sometime, somewhere. 

Everything was still 
Save where the clock grieved on, as if its will 
Would serve no master, since the old one passed 
From out that narrow lodgment to his last. 

We knew but little of him, for his ways were shy, 

But this we knew, that Sundays he passed by 

The small, rude church we backwoods folk had made, 

And neighbors whispered that he never prayed ; 

And so we cast commiserating glances 

And whispered fears about his future chances. 

But after a while our good old parson rose, 
Unschooled, uncultured, but a king to those 
Whose only merits have been taught and bred, 
And, gazing on the white, worn face, he gently said : 

53 



54 A PA TCH OF PAN SIB S. 

" I don't know what our friend believed. He never 

made no fuss 
Or worry over it, and so it need n't worry us. 
He may have been a Baptist, or have taken Calvin's 

creed, 
Or maybe him and Ingersoll, as like as not, agreed. 
He may have thought God made us, or we simply just 

began ; 
But, right or wrong, he alius was a tender-hearted man. 

" When he saw a cripple comin', did he walk fast and 

straight, 
As a half unconscious slight upon the other fellow's gait ? 
No, sir ! He 'd sort of lag along by that poor chap and 

smile, 
Like he liked to beat the record for the slowest-goin' 

mile. 
It was n't much, but that 's just it. It 's doin' what you 

can 
That goes to make the value of a tender-hearted man. 

" When a beggar-man 'ud ask him, he did n't smell 'nd 

shrink 
And say he 'd give a nickel, if it did n't go for drink. 
When he saw a fallen mortal he did n't quote a text ; 
He helped him up, and said, ' Who knows but I may be 
the next? 



THE TENDER-HEARTED MAN. 55 

Who knows how long this brother fought, or how his 
fault began ? 

Who knows that he could conquer ? ' said this tender- 
hearted man. 

" A half-growed, half-starved kitten and the sparrow it 

had caught 
' Ud both stir up the bottom of his feelin' and his 

thought. 
' Such awful things is in the world,' he 'd say, and almost 

cry; 
' It 's mighty hard that little cat or else the bird must die. 
This world beats me, but anyhow, though we don't 

know its plan, 
Let 's stop a little trouble,' says this tender-hearted man. 

" He made mistakes and had his sins, but never claimed 

to be 
The one man in the universe that had the right idee ; 
He never aimed at greatness and you would n't call him 

smart, 
But if he lacked a hundred ways, he made it up in 

heart, 
For you can search your little world, from Beersheba to 

Dan, 
And can't find none too many of the tender-hearted 

man." 



$6 A PATCH OF PANSIES. 

And though no word our parson spoke had given 
A promise that this soul had found a Heaven, 
No hope of golden gates, or music of the blest, 
Or ways of asphodel of happy rest, 
We felt, whatever lay beyond our sight, 
The tender-hearted man had gone aright. 



OVER THE GET-THERE ROAD. 

\17HO will dare the road to There, 
" * The There of glittering glory ? 
Rough it is as a Whitman ode, 
Cruel it is as the Russian code, 
Long it is as the devil's goad ; 
At least, so runs the story. 
There 's never a finger-post nor guide, 
Nor beast to bear your load ; 
Beware of the Reckless Rapid's tide 
And of Easy Swamp on the other side ; 
Go slow and sure, for you cannot ride 
Over the Get-There Road. 

What 's the fare to get to There, 
The There of marvellous mention ? 
Only a soul of smallest breed, 
Only a life of grasping greed, 
Only a heart which does not heed 
Another's right or plight or need, 
But holds its own intention. 
57 



58 A PATCH OF PANSIES. 

I saw one left to a loathsome pest, 
For that is Get-There mode. 
One picked the purse of his wretched guest, 
One trod rough-shod on a sweetheart's breast, 
Over the Get-There Road. 

What 's the share of those of There ? 
Why, every taste is suited ; 
Flaming fame or a ruling rod, 
A sunny smile of the golden god, 
Or may be six by two of sod, 
For that 's a point disputed. 
There 's never a way to tell what 's true 
Of that select abode, 
Till you pass the wall which bars its view, 
Over or under, around or through. 
I don't know how it is done, do you ? 
Most of us don't, but some of us do, 
Over the Get-There Road. 

Then who would care to get to There ? 

Why, all, if truth be spoken. 

Spite of scornful gibe and sneer 

There must have a heartsome cheer, 

And can't be worse than being here 

By many a sign and token. 

Then ho ! for a tramp on a well-worn track, 



OVER THE GET-THERE ROAD. $9 

Though rough as a Whitman ode, 
Or cruel as the Russian code, 
Or long as the devil's goad, 
Whatever it is, there 's nothing back, 
It can't be worse than a cul de sac, 
So, gird up your loins, pick up your pack, 
And hey for the Get-There Road ! 



THE ASCETIC— UP TO DATE. 

/"~V what is the guard for a soul pressed hard, 
^— ' When the devil comes a-wooing ? 
And why do I lack to buffet him back, 
When I know what the fiend is doing ? 

In the shaded gloom of my narrow room, 

I sit for aye and ever ; 
Yea, yea, for I swore that past its door 

I would wander never — never. 

Yet I sometimes look from the tiring book 
Beyond the half-swung casement ; 

And mine eye and ear, and the devil near, 
All tempt to my soul's abasement. 

Ah, yes ! It is clear that eye and ear 
Are leagued with the cunning devil, 

And the modest gloom of my well-kept room 
They would turn to a carnal revel. 
60 



THE ASCETIC— UP TO DATE. 6 1 

O, why should the mind be so inclined 

To what it forswore forever ? 
And why should the flesh be a constant mesh 

To tangle the soul's endeavor ? 

When up to my cell comes a fragrant smell 

Of the weed which is ever burning, 
O, why does it serve to set each nerve 

On edge with a hungry yearning ? 

O, why does the shine in the depths of wine, 

Of which I am set to thinking, 
Turn all my blood to a fiery flood, 

When I do not approve of drinking ? 

For, indeed, I know 't is the seed of woe, 

From the simplest sin to slaughter ; 
And yet I am cursed with a deep, deep thirst, 

Which is n't appeased by water. 

O, why does the flirt of a muslin skirt, 
And the glimpse of a tapered ankle, 

Send a sudden zest to disturb the breast, 
And to lie in the heart and rankle ? 

O, why do I sigh when the world goes by 

With all of its feathers flying, 
When I know it sold its soul for gold 

On the scales of theft and lying ? 



62 A PA TCH OF PANSIES. 

And why is it now that I still allow 
The whisper that tempts abasement : 

" You only swore not to pass the door, 
But still there is left — the casement ! " 



Ah, devil, you lie, for the room is I, 
And though I must listen to you, 

The living thrill of determined will 
Shall soon or late undo you. 

And that is the guard for a soul pressed hard 
When the devil, Self, comes wooing, 

For who can fly the restraint of " I," 
Except to his own undoing ? 



THE OTHER ONE WAS BOOTH. 

]\JOW, by the rood, as Hamlet says, it grieves me sore 
*■ * to say 

The stage is not as once it was when I was wont to play. 
'T is true that Irving, dear old chap, still gives a decent 

show, 
And Mansfield and young Willard really act the best 

they know ; 
'T is true, Duse and Bernhardt, for we must n't be too 

hard, 
Are very fair, for women, though of course they ought 

to guard 
Against some bad-art tendencies ; and as for all the rest, 
There 's hardly one, I may say none, who stands the 

artist's test. 
True artists are a rare, rare breed ; there were but two, 

forsooth, 
In all my time, the stage's prime ! and the other one was 

Booth. 

Why, Mac — I mean Macready — but we always called 

him Mac ; 
And old Ned Forrest used to say, or so they once told 

Jack ; 

63 ' 



64 A PA TCH OF PANSIES. 

Or, that is, Jack McCullough — well, this is what they 

said : 
There were but two who really knew how Shakespeare 

should be read. 
They did n't mean the younger Kean nor Jack ; and so 

perhaps 
It caused a little jealousy among the lesser chaps. 
They said that Lawrence Barrett was entitled to 

respect ; 
But as for Tom Salvini, well, his dago dialect 
Would never do for Shakespeare ; so, to tell the simple 

truth, 
There were only two men in it ; and the other one was 

Booth. 

Don't think conceit is in me tongue. 'T is something I 

detest ; 
But I may say that in me day I 've figured with the 

best. 
AVhy, Kalamazoo, and Oshkosh, too, and Kankakee as 

well, 
Went fairly wild, nor man nor child stirred when the 

curtain fell. 
The S. R. O. was hung each night ; our show was such a 

rage 
They took the ushers off the floor and ushered from the 

stage ! 



THE OTHER ONE WAS BOOTH. 65 

From Kissimee to San Louee, from Nawrleans to 

Duluth, 
Just two stars hit a little bit ; and the other one was 

Booth. 

I liked Ed Booth, for he was such a royal-hearted 
fellow, 

We never had a jealousy. When he put on Othello 

His Iago was much like to mine, likewise his stage 
direction ; 

But what cared Ed what critics said, since / made no 
objection ! 

Ah, me ! That day is past ; the play has lost its hon- 
ored station : 

Who reads aright, rage, sorrow, fright, or tragic desola- 
tion ? 

Aye, who can reach to Hamlet's speech, " To be or not 
to be?" 

Or wild Macbeth's cry, " Never shake thy gory locks at 
me ! " 

Or Lear's appeal : " Oh, let me not be mad, sweet 
heavens, not mad ! " 

Or Shylock's rage : " I '11 have me bond ! " Ah, me ! 
it makes me sad 

To think it all, and then recall the drama of me youth, 

When there were two who read lines true ; and the 
other one was Booth. 



A COURTIN' CALL. 

HIM ! 

T T E dressed hisself from top ter toe 
*■ -*• To beat the lates' fash'n. 
He give his boots a extry glow, 
His dicky glistered like the snow, 
He slicked his hair exactly so, 

An' all ter indicate " his pash'n." 
He tried his hull three ties afore 
He kep' the one on that he wore. 

her ! 

All afternoon she laid abed 

To make her featturs brighter. 
She tried on ev'ry geoun she hed, 
She rasped her nails until she bled, 
A dozen times she frizzed her head 
66 



A COURTIN* CALL. 67 

An' put on stuff to make her whiter, 
An'" fussed till she 'd 'a' cried, she said, 
-But that 'Id make her eyes so red. 



them ! 

They sot together in the dark 
Tthout a light, excep' their spark, 
An' neither could have told er guessed 
What way the t'other un was dressed ! 



THE OLD MAN KNOWS. 

r^vAN, yu '11 never find another 

*-* Like the hand of good old mother, 

Which hez labored fer yer bread, 

Yes, more 'n that, 'f all b' said, 

Fer she won 'nd then she made it ; 

'Nd such bread ! yu would n't trade it 

Fer no bankwit, if yu knew 

How yu '11 ache for 't when she 's through 

Doin' fer yu. Don't yu s'pose 

Like enough the old man knows ? 

Yes, I know it ain't ez milky 
In its looks, ner yet ez silky 
In its feel, ez 't use' to be, 
But 'f these old eyes can see 
Ev'ry line 's a line of beauty, 
Er a mark fer well done duty. 
No use talkin', Dan, it 's so. 
Guess the old man ought to know. 
68 



THE OLD MAN KNOWS. 69 

'Nd how ev'ry faded finger 
Loves to touch yu 'nd to linger 
In yer hair. Yu '11 understand 
Better some day 'bout that hand. 
Nothin' else can do ez much ez 
Them same peacefil, tender touches. 
How they soothe 'nd how old Sorro' 
Sneaks until some sad to-morro'. 
Dan, O Dan, the old man knows ; 
He hed a mother, don't yu s'pose ? 



LAUGH A LITTLE BIT. 

TJERE 'S a motto, just your fit — 

* * Laugh a little bit. 

When you think you 're trouble hit, 

Laugh a little bit. 

Look misfortune in the face. 

Brave the beldam's rude grimace ; 

Ten to one 't will yield its place, 

If you have the wit and grit 

Just to laugh a little bit. 

Keep your face with sunshine lit, 
Laugh a little bit. 
All the shadows off will flit, 
If you have the grit and wit 
Just to laugh a little bit. 

Cherish this as sacred writ — 

Laugh a little bit. 

Keep it with you, sample it, 

Laugh a little bit. 

Little ills will sure betide you, 

Fortune may not sit beside you, 

Men may mock and fame deride you, 

But you '11 mind them not a whit 

If you laugh a little bit. 



70 



And here's a bunch of posies of and for (he youngest of us : 
Long may they crow it over us and worry us and love us. 



To Herbert Wilbur Porter, 
" OUR BABY," 

AND TO ALL HIS FELLOWS WHO ARE GROWING UP TO-DAY TO MAKE 
THE WORLD GREATER AND BETTER TO-MORROW. 



n 



LEOPOLD. 



TTHIS is the story of Leopold, 
* A man of the world, just five years old, 
A little bit wise and a little bit bold, 
Who wanted a guinea of gold. 



Poor little, sad little five-year-old, 
Of woes of avarice never told, 
Too much charmed by gleamy gold, 
Wanted one piece to have and to hold. 

Papa might laugh, and mamma might scold, 
Toys grow tarnished or gray with mold, 
Porridge be hot or porridge be cold, 
Little cared little Leopold. 

Out of the house the boykin strolled, 
And round and round the blue eyes rolled, 
Always looking for gold, gold, gold. 



74 A PA TCff OF PANSIES. 

Money was everywhere — wealth untold — 
Copper and silver, and glistening gold, 
Greedily grasped and stingily doled, 
Cheated for, fought for, bought and sold. 

Across the counters it slid and rolled ; 
And big iron safes looked cross and cold 
And stretched their arms to catch and hold, 
As a miser does, the gleamy gold. 
And who could have forced or who cajoled 
One piece from their grasping, clasping hold ? 

Tired, so tired, grew our five-year-old ; 

Hunting feet should be harder soled ; 

And the big church bell the death-knell tolled 

Of by-gone hours, till at last he strolled 

Into a street of another mold 

Where nothing was bought and nothing sold. 

" Ho ! " sniffed sad little Leopold, 

As if to say that to search for gold 

In a place where none of it round him rolled 

Were foolish in a wise five-year-old. 

He turned to go, when lo, and behold ! 

Down at his feet in the untrod mold 

Lay a bright guinea of gold ! gold ! gold ! 



LEOPOLD. 75 

But no one ever has seen or told 

Of a happy hunter after gold ; 

" I want some more ! " cried Leopold. 

Now are n't we all like five-year-old, 
After something gleamy as gold ? 
And perhaps the prize we hope to hold 
Is down the street we have n't strolled ; 
So be a bit wise and a little bit bold, 
But don't be greedy like Leopold ! 



T 



THE NEW ST. NICHOLAS. 

WAS Christmas Eve and Nicholas Claus 
Went back to his store from the boarding- 
house. 



Trade was poor and Christmas cheer 
Was not for a man with a losing year. 
Lessening cash and growing debt 
Never made any man happy yet. 
Growing expense and lessening sales ; 
He scowled his brow and bit his nails. 
Creditors pressing and debtors slow ; 
He slammed his desk and he turned to go, 
And said, addressing the nearest wall, 
" What 's the use of trying at all ? 

I wish this weary life were past ; 
I wish this Christmas were my last." 
When, drifting in on a wintry blast 
Came the fairest mite of a fairy girl. 
Golden hair in a tangled curl ; 
76 



THE NEW ST. NICHOLAS. 77 

Shoes unbuttoned, but face as bright 
As the fairest star on the clearest night. 

" Well ? " said Nicholas, after a pause. 

" Pease, sir, is oo dood Mister Tlaws ? " 

" ' Claws,' they call me, little mouse, 

Who don't know the honest Dutch of ' Klowse,' 

But how in the mischief came you here 

And how do you know my name, my dear ? " 

The little maid answered, " Knows it, tause 
Me knows how to spell it, Mister Tlaws. 
Mama teached me ; she knows, I dess, 
Zere 's a c, an' a 1, an' a a-oo-s, 
An' I seened it on oor window-pane. 
An' pease, Mister Tlaws, won't oo etsplain 
How ve 'ittle deers an' sled tan fly ? 
An' tan vey ever fly up so high 
As mama an' me is, way up top 
Free floors over ve drocery shop ? " 

" People and deer can do great things 

If only they try — though they don't have wings, 

And what would you want the deer to take 

You and your mama ? Apples and cake, 

A doll and a hobby-horse, candy, too ? 

How do you think that list would do ? " 



78 A PATCH OF PANSIES. 

The little one's eyes grew wide and bright 

At bare suggestion of such delight, 

But she closed her lips and shook her head. 

" Me yants a sown-achine" she said. 

" A big man bringed us yun, yun day, 

But n'uzzer man talced it all away. 

An' w'en he was don', my mama c'yed, 

An' me tlimbed up, an' ast her why 'd 

She c'y, and she says ' Tause wese poor.' 

So pease, Mister Tlaws, won't oo brin' yun to 'er ? " 

Nicholas swallowed hard and felt 

His eyes grow warm and moist and melt 

Over his lashes. Down he bent 

And picking the little tot up, he went 

Out to the stable, saying, " Here 

Is Queenie. She '11 do instead of deer." 

Into the harness went the mare 
And into the sleigh our worthy pair, 
With the best machine in the goodly house 
Of his new found saintship, — Nicholas Claus. 
" Now tuck in good from this driving snow 
And tell me which is the way to go." 

" Ooh ! " said the child with an injured look, 
" Is n't us down in oor 'ittle book? " 



THE NEW ST. NICHOLAS. 79 

" Bless my soul, but I quite forgot 

To look the address up, little tot. 

You '11 have to show me." So she showed 

The way to carry the precious load, 

And Nicholas tip-toed three flights high , 

And set it down ; then breathed, " Good-bye, 

Little heroine-baby ; better go in 

Or mama won't know where on earth you 've been." 

Her little head took a bashful tip, 

And a finger sought the rosebud lip ; 

Then shyly patting one of his knees, 

The little maid said, " Tan't me tiss oo, pease ? " 

Nicholas clasped her close and tight, 
And the darling laughed her pure delight, 
And said, " Tan't me tall oo 'Santy,' 'tause 
Me lites oo so much, Mister Tlaws." 

A happier man than Nicholas Claus 

Never went home to a boarding-house. 

But first he arranged for a Christmas pack 

To be sent to the girl on the fourth floor back ; 

And he stabled Queenie, and fixed her right 

To stand the rigorous winter night, 

And bought a dozen newsboys out, 

Greeted his friends with a cheery shout, 



So A PA TCH OF PAMSIES. 

And laughed and said, " By George, it 's queer 
That the biggest credit I 've got this year 
Is charged to Profit and Loss account ; 
For the entry of that one small amount 
Has balanced all of my woes. I '11 start 
All over again, with a braver heart. 

So, dear little girl, thy gift to me 
Is far, far more than mine to thee." 



A WATCHWORD. 

\ \ J HEN you find a certain lack 
" * In the stiffness of your back 
At a threatened fierce attack, 
Just the hour 

That you need your every power, 
Look a bit 

For a thought to baffle it. 
Just recall that every knave, 
Every coward, can be brave, 
Till the time 

That his courage should be prime — 
Then 't is fled. 
Keep your head ! 
What a folly 't is to lose it 
Just the time you want to use it ! 

When the ghost of some old shirk 
Comes to plague you, and to lurk 
In your study or your work, 
Here 's a hit 

Like enough will settle it. 
81 



82 A FA TCH OF PANSIES. 

Knowledge is a worthy prize ; 

Knowledge comes to him who tries- 

Whose endeavor 

Ceases never. 

Everybody would be wise 

As his neighbor, 

Were it not that they who labor 

For the trophy creep, creep, creep, 

While the others lag or sleep ; 

And the sun comes up some day 

To behold one on his way 

Past the goal 

Which the soul 

Of another has desired, 

But whose motto was, " I 'm tired." 

When the task of keeping guard 

Of your heart — 

Keeping weary watch and ward 

Of the part 

You are called upon to play 

Every day — 

Is becoming dry and hard, 

Conscience languid, virtue irksome, 

Good behaviour growing worksome,- 

Think this thought : 

Doubtless everybody could, 



A WATCHWORD. 83 

Doubtless everybody would, 

Be superlatively good, 

Were it not 

That it 's harder keeping straight 

Than it is to deviate ; 

And to keep the way of right, 

You must have the pluck to fight. 



CONSOLATION. 

f^NE day in December 

^— ' (I don't just remember 
The date), and somewhere near the top of the map, 

Good Santa was sitting 

Preparing for flitting, 
And he pasted his calling-list snug in his cap. 

The saint was a sightly 

Old fellow, and brightly 
His nimbus shone out from his jolly old poll, 

But having done conning 

His list, again donning 
His cap, lo ! his halo was doused, and the scroll 

Was burned rather badly 

And two names so sadly 
That the saint could n't puzzle 'em out, for his soul. 

I 'd not be a breeder 

Of pardons, my reader, 
For even a saint, when his duty is missed, 

But should Santy neglect 

To bring what we expect, 
Perhaps your name and mine were those lost from the 
list. 



84 



"ON THE JUDGMUNT DAY." 

" TPHAT Jim Young 's a mean old thing. 

* What you think he done ? 
He knocked my alley out the ring 
'N' grabbed it up 'n' run. 
An' it was n't keepses, like he says it was ; 
Keeps is wicked gamblin' ; knows it, too, he does. 
Why 'd he run away for, if he thought tuz fair ? 
He 's a mean, old cheater, now ! but I don't care. 
He '11 git ketched up sometime where he can't run 'way; 
He '11 git a lickiri on the Judgmunt Day. 

" What you laughin' at ? It 's so. 
If you 're bad er naughty ! 
Guess my mother ought to know, 
'N' she tol' me'n' Tottie 
Not to tell no stories, ner to say bad things, 
Ner hook the groc'ry apples, ner to pull flies' wings, 
Ner b'unpolite to comp'ny, ner walk the railroad ties, 
Ner to fight — spechly fellers not yer size — 
Ner never go a swimmin', 'less she says we may, 
Er we 'd git a lickin' on the Judgmunt Day. 

85 



86 A PA TCH OF PANS1ES. 

" Joey Smith, he 's orful bad. 

He 's mucher badder 'n me. 

He 's a stealer. Oncet he had 

Two birdnests from our tree, 

An' the little ' cheepses ' — course they could n't fly — 

Jus' was lef there, nakid, on the groun' to die. 

I was jus' as mad as ever I could be. 

I 'd a killed that feller ! but he 's bigger 'n me. 

I don't care. He '11 catch it. 'N' so '11 Grace 'n' Nell, 

'Cause they tol' I whispered, 'n' they oughtent tell. 

'N' I was kep' at recess, so 's I could n't play ; 

Teacher '11 git a lickin' on the Judgmunt Day. 

" If I 'm good as sugar, say ! 

Wun't I have the fun 

Watchin' other chaps that day 

When the lickin 's done ? 

Gee ! I '11 do 't. I '11 try to alius ' use the mat,' 

Keep the ten commandments, never plague the cat, 

Take good care of Tottie, not play games too rough — 

Be like grannie tells me, 'n' if that ain't good 'nough, 

I '11 jus' walk up, yessir, up to God 'n' say, 

' I 'm here to take my lickin ! ' on the Judgmunt Day." 



"AUFWIEDERSEH'N." 



87 



" AUFWIEDERSEH'N." 

1XIND word of hope, " Aufwiederseh'n,' 
*^* Reminding we shall meet again. 
I would thy constant spell could bless 
Each fading, fleeting happiness, 
Like loyal, loving lips, which press 
And only part to re-caress. 

The sun sinks down and all is night, 
But lo ! in Heaven's awesome height 
His splendors in the stars remain 
As Nature's grand "Aufwiederseh'n." 

So would I have thy presence lend 
Its solace, even to the end ; 
And when one passes, pray detain 
The thought of those who still remain 
And rob the parting of its pain 
With thy sweet hope, 

" Aufwiederseh'n." 



